


For You Became My Lighthouse

by MaybeDefinitely404



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Crying, Food, Hurt/Comfort, It's okay though, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Wine, argument, but it doesn't go to plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29815683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeDefinitely404/pseuds/MaybeDefinitely404
Summary: Virgil has a plan, and he's really never been more excited for anything in his life. But after an misunderstanding spirals into something worse, he realizes he may never get to follow through with it, and the night crumbles into disaster.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders
Comments: 17
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**5:24**

It definitely wasn’t every day that Virgil spent the early evening dancing around the kitchen while making dinner. But today was no ordinary day, and he was just too damn excited to stay still.

Figaro sat on the floor in the bedroom doorway, licking his paws and glaring disdainfully at the speaker system that had disrupted his nap. Virgil spotted the dark cat and grinned, dancing over to scoop him up. He hummed along to the music, bopping the disgruntled cat to the beat (much to his chagrin). Once upon a dream, Figaro might have fought tooth and nail at being used as a dance partner, but living with Roman for years had worn down his resolve. And after Virgil had entered their lives, he’d completely given up fighting their excuses for attention. Instead, the cat just yawned and went limp.

“Aw, did I wake you up, Figgy?”

The cat did not answer. 

Virgil let him hop from his arms onto his scratching tower and went back to slicing spinach on the counter, humming along to the music. He wanted it louder, loud enough that it numbed the excited tremble in his hands and drowned out his internal butterflies, but he wasn’t in the mood to deal with noise complaints. Again. 

Instead, he opened the drawer in front of him and ran his fingers over the small box he’d placed in there hours ago. As he’d done countless times since, he opened the lid to make  _ sure  _ that the ring inside was still there, still perfectly centered and shining as brightly as it had been when he’d picked it up earlier that morning. 

Roman would never expect  _ him  _ to propose. Ask anyone who knew them and they’d agree that the romantic, outgoing, type-to-propose in their relationship  _ wasn’t  _ Virgil. Plus, he’d dropped no hints. Any time he met with Logan to plan, or went to the jewelers, and the million other things he’d had to do before this, he’d chalked it up to ‘having a bad day’ or ‘needing time alone’. 

He felt… a little bad, knowing in the recent months many of Roman’s attempts at dates had been turned down, only half the time due to actual bad days. But it would all be worth it in the end. The plan was to start with dinner; the meal they’d had on their first real date, followed by Virgil suggesting a walk. As they put on their jackets, he’d sneak the ring box into his pocket, and innocently lead them past a cafe for dessert, “coincidentally” the spot where Roman had asked Virgil to move in with him. Finally, the park, strung up with fairy lights and electric candles Logan and Patton had set up just before. It was their perfect mix of solitude and ‘extra’. Virgil would propose, and Roman would hopefully say yes, and everything would be perfect and amazing and- 

The oven timer beeped. There was fifteen minutes left for the dough to set; time to make the filling for the ravioli. But he’d barely started cooking the spinach when his phone chimed, alerting him of a text.

**Hey V, dinner and a movie tonight? You can choose.**

Virgil bit his lip and sighed, thumbs hovering over the keyboard for a second. As old as the excuse was getting, he needed to side step Roman’s plans one more time. Just one last time.

**not feeling well. anxietys been all over the place. sry.**

He laid the phone back on the counter and returned his attention to the frying pan, flipping the greens and watching them wilt slowly. One eye on that, he pulled out his other ingredients from the fridge. He’d rather be ahead of schedule than behind. 

_ Ding ding. _

**Yeah, shocker. What else is new.**

Virgil felt his heart drop. That wasn’t… at  _ all  _ in character for his boyfriend. Yeah, he’d used the excuse more often lately, but was it  _ that  _ much? He stared at his phone, hardly breathing, trying to think of some way to answer that, when a burnt smell reached his nose. 

“Shit,” He hissed, trading his phone for a spatula and turning the spinach once more. It was just on the brink of being overdone, just the edges turning a tad too dark, but nothing he couldn’t save. He scraped the pan’s contents into a bowl to cool and dumped it in the sink. The hiss and steam of the hot pan in water made him wince (he’d been told a million times it was bad, but he couldn’t recall why), but he left it on the bottom of the sink to fill and soak. Scrubbing dried spinach off it tomorrow would really put a damper on the ‘recently engaged’ mood.

_ “Mrow?” _

Virgil shut off the water and turned to the trill, cursing when he realized Figaro had abandoned his tower in favor of sniffing the food on the counter.

“Figgy, no! Get down!” He plucked him away from the bowl just as he looked ready to pounce inside, much to the cat’s annoyance. “You would just spit it out, you big baby. Don’t look at me like that.” It probably wasn’t safe to keep cooking with the cat around anyways, so he went to their room and left him on their bed with a soft order to behave. Figaro blinked once at him with indignation before the door was closed, and Virgil hurriedly pulled out his phone.

**Real mature, not answering.**

Virgil took a deep breath to push down the rising anxiety. He’s… probably just playing around, right? It’s probably meant in a lighthearted way but he was just misinterpreting the text harshly. It’s not malicious. Right?

**sry, put figgy away**

He paused for a moment, before shooting another quick text.

**ur not actually mad right?**

The typing bubble appeared.

And went away.

And popped up again.

And vanished.

That was enough confirmation to get Virgil’s heart pounding, all hope that Roman was just fooling around out the window. He was typing again, and this bubble was staying for longer, but now it was  _ too  _ long to be a simple affirmation.

**I don’t know, Virgil. You used to actually contribute to this relationship, and now I’m the only one really trying. We barely ever go out, for like a couple months now. You always dodge my plans. I miss the old you, because right now I feel like I barely know you. I’m getting sick of it.**

Now Virgil properly couldn’t breathe. That sounded like the beginning, if not the entirety, of a breakup if he ever heard one. Fuck.  _ Fuck!  _ Fuck his stupid ideas, his stupid plans, fuck all of it. This is his fault, and Roman’s about to dump him, because he took his overdramatic proposal too far and it was about to end their relationship.

**I’ll be home late.**

Okay, that wasn’t… a breakup? Unless, of course, he was going to do it in person, and needed time to plan how it was going to go. 

Cognitive distortions, is that what Logan had called them? Magnifying? Is that what was happening right now? There was a solid chance that Logan would agree with him, say that he wasn’t actually sure what Roman planned, and it would probably be okay, but it was very hard to be objective when he was in the middle of it.

**how late?**

Another deep breath. He placed the phone next to his mixing bowl, screen up so he would be sure to see the notification, and absentmindedly added in the ingredients he’d pulled from the fridge earlier. Shit, did they have thyme? 

Of course they did, he’d gone shopping for all the ingredients like two days ago. He needed to get out of his own head. 

The final timer went off, signaling the dough was ready to be used. Before he unwrapped the ball and got his hands covered in the stuff, he checked the lock screen on his phone. Nothing. 

It was fine, it was fine. 

Rolling out the pasta into one thin sheet took far more effort than he would have thought, and it took embarrassingly long before he was able to lay it out on the big ice cube tray he was using in place of an actual ravioli mold. He checked his phone. Nothing. 

Once he got the hang of filling the molds without making a huge mess, it was actually an easy process. He finished three and a half trays-worth before running out of dough and filling simultaneously, but that’s more than enough for the two of them. No answer yet. 

**ro?**

He set a pot on the stove full of water but didn’t turn it on; it would just be one less thing to do when he  _ was  _ ready to cook the ravioli. For now, he placed the pasta in the fridge so it didn’t dry up. Roman generally got home from work at six, which he had prepared for, except on late rehearsal days when he was held back an extra hour. That’s what Virgil consciously chose to believe; he meant he’d be home late because it was a longer day. He wasn’t answering  _ now  _ because he was on stage. Technically it all made sense, but it wasn’t enough to relieve the icy grip around Virgil’s lungs. 

**romans gonna be late. push back an hour?**

Logan sent back a thumbs up followed by his ‘-Logan’ sign off. Virgil sent a quick apology but didn’t bother to check the response when his phone lit up, focusing back on his plate of raw ravioli.

So, at five to seven, he’d boil the pasta and warm up the tomato sauce. It had been finished that morning and had been waiting in the fridge all day, because Virgil was a firm believer that it would taste better having had time to sit. Plus, he’d been excited, and had needed something to do with his hands. 

But now he needs something to do with his hands again, but instead of excitement, it’s a tingling discomfort spreading through his limbs and curling in his stomach. Convinced that there was nothing else in the kitchen he could do, he untied the apron and pulled it over his head, pleased at the stark black button up he’d successfully kept flour-free. The satisfaction doesn’t last for long.

Now that he’d acknowledged his shirt, it was impossible to ignore the way it wrapped far too tight around his neck.  _ It’s fine,  _ he thought as he unbuttoned the top button,  _ I still look okay. _

He may as well set the table. Patton, similar to Roman in regards to going above and beyond, had insisted Virgil go all out for the dinner. Stark white table cloth, silverware set perfectly next to the plates, and a tall, white candle as the centrepiece. Virgil had cringed a bit at the idea, but after being assured that Roman would love it, he’d reluctantly agreed. It wasn’t his style but, well, the night wasn’t supposed to be about him, no really. 

Watching TV did nothing to relieve the knot of uneasiness in his stomach, even when he unrolled his weighted blanket from the side basket and huddled into it. It brought a calm familiarity with it, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could pretend that someone was holding him. Patton’s soothing words, or Logan’s gravity, or Roman’s warmth or Roman’s safety or Roman’s gentleness or  _ Roman- _

**6:53**

Time to throw in the ravioli. He shut off the television, he hadn’t been watching it anyways, and turned the water on to boil. As it heated, he scuttled back to the table, some of his excitement returning. Sure, things had been tense on the phone, but Roman would be home any minute, and the rest of the night could go as planned. He pulls a small crinkle out of the white fabric and recenters the candle, stepping back to admire his work. It’s  _ okay.  _ If Roman had done it, it would probably look better, but who cared. It was fine. 

**7:01**

Virgil sighed, looking over his final creation once again. A part of him was cringing with the cheesiness of it all; the lit candle, food already plated, a bottle of wine fresh from the fridge. Getting a new wine may have been too much of a giveaway, so the feature was a half finished bottle from their last date… a few months ago. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if it would pair well. He didn’t even like wine. But it was Roman’s favorite, so it would have to do. 

He’d bitten three nails down to the nub by the time he figured he could add the tomato sauce over top. Roman was never later than seven, so the pasta wouldn’t even have the time to get soggy. 

In a combination of unfortunate events unlike any Virgil had experienced before, the tomato sauce bubbled the moment he grabbed the handle, dozens of pinpricks of heat burning his hands. He yelped and dropped the saucepan in favor of grabbing his scalded hand, jumping back as the pot hit the side of the counter and sent tomato sauce flying directly into the open drawer next to it. In his search for a match to light the candle, he’d left open the drawer containing the ring box, and in moments, the velvety exterior was coated in a fresh layer of marinara. 

“Fuck!” Virgil shouted. 

Heat be damned, he grabbed the box from the steaming puddle around it and rushed it to the sink. Running it under water would just be asking for the situation to be worse so he tried to scrape off the mess with a dishcloth. Was this even salvageable? 

No, it turned out. The white velvet had stained a shitty orange in a way he  _ definitely  _ couldn’t play off as the original color, and even though the interior (or god forbid the  _ ring _ ) hadn’t been touched, he found himself trying to fight off tears. This wasn’t fucking going well, and now… 

**7:28**

Roman was never this late, not without telling him. Virgil checked his phone and, nope, only the previous message from Logan and a newer one, asking if they could set up yet. He sent a quick:

**no, hes not home yet**

Panicking was not a move he wanted to make right now, despite how his brain was trying to convince him otherwise. Roman was probably stuck in traffic, right? And Virgil was always getting on him for texting and driving, so that could be why he hadn’t said anything. Sure, the route from the theatre to their house was barely ever busy, and  _ yeah,  _ it was way too late for there to be real holdups, but there was a first time for everything. 

He made quick work of cleaning up the disaster of marinara sauce, surprised that a decent amount was salvageable. Apparently in his panic he’d righted the pot before it had all spilled, so there was maybe just enough for the meals. The inside of the drawer was a stained, orange, mess, and the area under the burners was caked in dried sauce, and that was just too much work for right now. He slammed the drawer shut and threw a towel over the element. Out of sight, out of… well, not out of mind, but maybe it would take a backseat on ‘worries for the night’.

Might as well get a head start on dishes, he thought, since the thought of texting Roman is daunting and his whole body is aching for something to do. One second more of standing still and he may very well have combusted. He couldn’t even summon up the will to turn on music, the mood from before totally vanquished. If he could just get that burnt pan done, perhaps the tension in his chest would ease up a bit. 

But he cleaned the pan, and the rest of the dishes, and scrubbed the sink, and Roman still wasn’t home. At some point when he’d decided to just finish all of the dirty cookware he’d rolled up his sleeves, which he quickly lowered and rebuttoned around his wrists. The dishes were drying; nothing left to do there. 

He swallowed thickly. How was the shirt  _ still  _ too tight around his throat?

Virgil unbuttoned the next one down, hoping to ease the ball of fear in his throat. It didn’t help.

The food was lukewarm, at that point. It was still edible. It was microwaveable. It was fine. Again, the thought crossed his mind to text Roman, but what if he was driving? He might check it and get pulled over, and that would  _ not  _ help the uneasiness in their relationship right now. What if the phone’s light distracted him and he got into a car accident? He couldn’t lose Roman, not when their last words had been so strained,  _ and  _ it would be his fault on top? Not a chance. He’d be home any second now. He had to be. 

Virgil quickly found himself under his weighted blanket once more, watching whatever sitcom was on with dissociated interest, arms wrapped around his waist in a vice grip and feet bouncing under the covers. This time, though, the television worked less as a distraction and more as grating noise in his skull and he muted it, but that didn't stop the sudden stream of noise. Water was running through the pipes under him, some of his neighbors were shouting, and the fridge was humming and the lights overhead were buzzing and it’s all so  _ loud- _

His sound blocking headphones were also in the basket next to the couch and he shoved them over his ears. The world went quiet except for the sounds of his shaky breathing; breathe in, and out, and in, and out…

**8:07**

With the thick padding over his ears, the only sound he could hear was his breathing. It was somewhat reminiscent of Darth Vader’s, seeming far too loud, but also a steady foundation for him to ground on. Without the outside distraction, it was far easier to focus on his breaths, to slow them down, to get into a rhythm of long inhales and longer exhales. Bit by bit, the swarm of butterflies that had clasped around his heart gave way, allowing the anxiety to morph into numb sadness.

If Roman had come home on time, would they be in the park already? Would they be engaged? Maybe they’d already be back home, sharing the news to their families. Roman would probably already be gushing about wedding ideas as Virgil nodded along in amusement. They probably could have convinced Patton and Logan to come home too, and they could have had a great rest of the evening, finishing the bottle of wine and reliving the past and…

Were they even going to get engaged at this point?

He fumbled for his phone and sent a text to Logan.

**plans off. sry**

The headphones were overly effective in silencing the world, now amplifying his thoughts too much, so he slid them off. He took a deep breath, the sound now camouflaged in the rest of the apartment’s noise. A lump formed in his throat as he took in the arrangement of the dining room, and the more he pushed it down, the harder it was to stem the tears that were steadily filling his eyes. 

Virgil didn’t  _ like  _ feeling helpless, but that was all he felt at that moment.

_ Fuck. _

Without forethought, he rubbed at his eyes, and instantly froze.

He drooped his head with a sigh that bordered on a groan, reluctantly lowering his hands from his face. Mixed in with his intercepted tears were the smudged remains of his makeup smeared across the web of his hands. 

_ Might as well; everything else went to shit anyways. _

Usually, Virgil didn’t spend more than a minute removing his makeup. But that day, he spent an inordinate amount of time scraping off every streak of color until his face felt raw, watching his hard work be erased. He’d spent forever getting it perfect.

Even after he finished, he couldn’t get himself to move. That familiar weight of anxiety was settling again into the pit of his stomach as rushes of adrenaline, but he found it impossible to tear his eyes away from the mirror. As he stared into his own eyes, he vaguely remembered reading somewhere that looking at yourself in low lighting could trick one’s brain, causing the face to morph into something totally different, oftentimes not human; monstrous. Something about the brain trying to find faces everywhere, and creating them where it can’t see one properly. 

This didn’t happen to Virgil.

All he saw in the mirror was someone who had messed up his hope for a future. 

Huh. So maybe a ‘monster’ wasn’t too far off.

He laughed humorlessly and finally flicked off the bathroom switch, reentering the living room. The candle was still burning strong on the table, a good half way down. Virgil blew it out.

**9:12**

The state of apathy Virgil had sunken into was violently replaced with sharp anxiety when he finally bothered to check his phone, realizing it was past nine o’clock. Once more he considered asking Roman if everything was okay (heh, as if anything was okay) but he was quickly reminded why he hadn’t in the first place. Light distracts a driving Roman, bad things happen, it’s all his fault… 

Instead, he replied to Logan’s response.

**Why? Virgil, what happened?**

**-Logan**

**we had a fight**

His feet led him by their own will, pulling him to the wall so he could flip off the lights, dousing the apartment in darkness. Using the light from his phone screen, he stumbled to their room- or was it just Roman’s now? Would he have to move out? Oh god… where was he going to live?- ignoring Figaro’s mewls for pets. 

**What did this fight regard?**

**-Logan**

**idk. a bunch of stuff.**

He stripped out of his formal shirt, hands shaking so bad he could barely undo the buttons, and exchanged it for his favorite hoodie. It may be too hot to sleep in, but he felt the need for comfort more than he was concerned about heat. 

Virgil dropped onto the bed next to the clothes, finally relenting to Figaro’s complaining and stroking down his back. In the stillness of a silent apartment, it was suddenly harder than ever to not completely break down. At least he wiped off his makeup.

**Was this fight over dinner?**

**-Logan**

  1. **over text. hes not home yet.**



He allowed the first tears to fall.

Maybe this had all been building up for a while and Virgil had just been too dumb to see the signs. Was this the night he lost everything? Would the one person he never grew tired of, the only person he had truly loved, leave him? He didn’t know what he’d do without Roman and somehow, he didn’t think he’d have a hope of ever finding someone like him again.

The tremors and blurry vision made it difficult to type.

**i think romans going to break up with me**

It took barely half a second after it sent for his phone to start ringing, Logan’s name showing up on the caller ID. 

Later, Virgil wouldn’t even remember pressing the answer button. The moment he heard Logan’s voice over the phone, his unusually concerned voice overlapping with Patton’s questions, the dam broke. He sobbed his way through an explanation the night, the text messages they’d swapped, and his snowball of anxiety.

To no surprise, the two on the other line immediately offered to come over, but Virgil declined. There was still the tiniest part of him, the littlest hope, that Roman was still going to walk through that door any second. If (when, when,  _ when _ ) he came home, they would need to talk, and it would complicate matters if Logan and Patton were there. 

When he eventually yawned in the middle of a sentence, he was encouraged to go to bed. He really didn’t need to be convinced; he was more than ready for this evening to be over. After promises that he’ll update them first thing in the morning, and multiple reminders that Patton loved him, he was left alone in the apartment once again. 

He curled into a ball on his side of the bed and cried himself to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman finally comes home.

**Roman, is everything alright?**

**-Logan**

Roman ran a hand through his hair at the message, checking the time at the top of the screen. It was late, far too late, so it was safe to assume that Logan had heard about the spat from Virgil. He should have been home by now. It was just… impossible to convince himself to actually leave the rehearsal studio. He had a younger acting class tomorrow and was perfecting his lesson plan- even though he already knew it was perfect, and his director had already approved it. Just, anything to keep him from going home.

He’d been a dick. Such was obvious; from the second his finger had hit send, he regretted approximately everything in his life that had led to this moment. That day had been particularly bad, overrun with rehearsals he was either taking part in or directing, and gearing up for tech week of a large production. Who knew trying to block a scene with a flurry of pre-teens could take so much out of you? Rinse and repeat the cycle with two more classes to teach back to back and an achingly long dance rehearsal, add in a desperate and fruitless search for a replacement lead in his upcoming directorial debut, and you’d have what Roman would categorize as a “shit show of a day”. 

All he wanted to do at the end of it was spend some time with his boyfriend, without having to talk about his day, so he’d suggested the most basic date his fried brain could conjur. Then his work desk was unceremoniously reacquainted with his forehead as he smacked it into the wood, letting out a groan that bordered on a yell. Luckily, minutes ago everyone had abandoned the theatre, and he’d been trusted with the keys to lock up from a stagehand. He just had a couple more things to do, and then he could drive home. 

Getting a reply of denial from Virgil was nothing new. In fact, he’d been warned in the transition from reluctant acquaintanceship to inevitable friendship, that he tended to veto ideas if they were sudden, or too daunting, or if he was just feeling shitty. It was something that Roman never considered a deal breaker, and he’d slowly come to much rather enjoy a night of cuddling and watching television than going out anyways. Call it ‘getting old’, call it ‘Virgil’s homebody ways creeping into his psyche’. So  _ usually _ , getting his plans rejected was no big deal. 

Except for today, when he was well and past his limit of frustration, and things not going to plan. He’d typed out and sent the snarky reply far before he’d thought it out whatsoever, and ranted out complaints that hadn’t ever crossed his mind before, which he immediately regretted. In a moment of shame so great it caused physical nausea, he tossed his phone into one of his desk drawers and slammed it shut. 

It buzzed once, twice, and then went silent. 

Until, of course, it began to go berserk an indecipherable amount of time later, and Roman couldn’t ignore it. Seeing Logan’s text, along with about a million missed calls from him and Patton, broke the fragile sense of calm he’d tried to achieve while working. 

He didn’t want to go home and face his consequences. Childish, yes. Well deserved, also yes, but he was afraid of Virgil’s inevitable anger. If this led to a breakup, a fight that wasn’t recoverable, he’d never forgive himself. 

And now…

**Roman, is everything alright?**

**-Logan**

  
  


**I can see you’ve read my text message.**

**-Logan**

  
  


**I’m at work.**

  
  


**You’re inconceivably moronic. Get home. Now.**

**-Logan**

  
  


Roman sighed heavily through his nose, clenching his jaw. He began typing out another snarky response- because  _ apparently he never learned _ \- when another text came through.

**Virgil was in significant distress last I spoke to him and he has stopped answering me and Patton. Go. Home.**

**-Logan**

**Please. If not for my sake, then for Virgil’s.**

**-Logan**

_ Fuck. _

Roman barely had the sense to lock the doors of the building in his rush, throwing the spare key back in through the mail slot and booking it to his car. He sent some sort of confirmation that he was going and tossed the phone to his back seat. Virgil hated when he used it while driving.

It was only on the drive back, on unusually empty roads, did he realize it was well past nine. He hadn’t even noticed the time passing by.

Most of the lights in the apartment complex were still on when he pulled into the car park, but their window visible on this side showed only darkness. He wasn’t used to entering a dark apartment.

Their flat was silent, the living room only illuminated by the oven clock and the dim city lights from the balcony. He toed off his shoes as silently as he could, wincing when he kicked their shoe rack, and decided he’d risk turning on the light. When he finally found the switch and flicked it on, he couldn’t help his gasp. 

The room had once been a pristine display, he could tell. A white table cloth adorned their usually bare dining room table and a half burned candle stood as its centrepiece. He approached it in a daze, cautiously resting a hand on the plate of ravioli nearest to him. Cold. Long cold; the pasta was starting to get crusty. 

He picked up the two plates, intent on throwing out the food. It definitely wasn’t safe to eat anymore, and he didn’t feel like warding off an attack of ants in the morning. One of the towels hanging off the oven handle was drenched in what looked like marinara sauce, and it looked like there was some more spilled in the crack between the stove and the counter.  _ That  _ would be fun to clean. 

Both hands full, he opened the cupboard containing the garbage bin with a socked foot, and promptly froze. 

Part of him cringed at the clang the dropped plates made on the counter, but the louder part of him was just repeating a mantra of  _ ‘holy shit, holy shit, holy shit’  _ and it was considerably out-screaming the other. Hands now shaking, Roman picked up the small box from the sink edge, ignoring the dried, crunchy texture of more tomato sauce on the outside, and opened it. 

It took every ounce of strength for Roman not to collapse to his knees, guilt instantly crushing the air from his lungs, a thousand times heavier than it had been before. An elaborate dinner, a ring… there had been a plan. That’s why Virgil had rejected his offer to go out. 

And he’d been such a  _ dick  _ to him _.  _

Speaking of which, where  _ was  _ he?

Roman closed the box and set it back where it had been. Their bedroom door was slightly ajar, and the most obvious place Virgil would be, so he padded over and creaked it open just a bit more. The light from the hallway cast a beam onto the bed, illuminating first a mess of hastily thrown clothes; his button up shirt he only used for fancy occasions on top of the pile. 

Virgil’s huddled form was easy to make out, curled away from the door, his only movement being the steady rise and fall of the blanket as he breathed. Figaro lifted his head from where he was settled in the crook of Virgil’s knees and gave Roman an indifferent  _ mrow.  _

He couldn’t get into bed with him. There was no scenario where that was the right move. It wasn’t the right time to talk about what had happened, not so late and when they were both riding high on emotions and tiredness, so accidentally waking Virgil was not the way to go. And even if he was sneaky enough to not wake him… a part of him just felt it was wrong. Not when he didn’t know Virgil’s stance on him at the moment.

Or his stance on the relationship.

Well, couch it was. He acknowledged the crumpled weighted blanket and sound blocking headphones- clear aftermath of a bad panic attack- with a quiet curse. Somehow that pit in his stomach got even bigger, making him nauseous as his shame took a physical form. 

He could only pray that they would come back from this. 

Roman’s sleep was fitful, to say the least. At best, he drifted into a state of half-consciousness, where his thoughts could be somewhat quieted down, but the discomfort of the couch and the heavy weight in his heart were still palpable. Inevitably, one of their neighbors would make a noise or the building would make a settling creak or a distant dog would bark, and the state would be broken, leaving Roman wide awake and wracked with guilt once more. He’d never noticed how loud the world was until he wanted nothing more than for the noise to stop. 

The sun was just peaking into the window when their bedroom door widened and Roman flew up, using the back of the couch to steady his sudden sitting position. When their eyes met from across the room, Virgil in his pajamas and face hidden in shadow, a tenseness settled over the room that neither had experienced in their relationship thus far. Virgil froze in the doorway, wavering slightly. It didn’t appear he wanted to be the one to break the silence. 

Roman stood slowly, as though not to spook him.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” Virgil whispered with a sniff, and even in that one word Roman could hear the scratchiness of his voice. “I just...uhm,” He cleared his throat, “I just wanted to get some water. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was already awake. No… no worries.” 

Virgil looked down to his feet. “When did you come back?”

“I think just before ten.”

“‘Kay.”

For an all too long moment, both of them seemed to find interest in every part of the room that  _ wasn’t  _ the other’s eyes. It wasn’t until Roman looked towards the kitchen in his awkwardness did he process what Virgil had come out for. 

“I’ll, um…” He pointed weakly to the kitchen and finally convinced his feet to move, filling up a glass from the sink while making a conscious effort to not look at the dishes or wasted food from the evening before. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop the way his gaze drifted towards the box sitting next to the tap, and judging by Virgil’s sharp inhale, the look hadn’t been subtle. 

He took the glass back to the other, watching him take it with an uncomfortable, “Thanks.”

Virgil downed the glass in one go, his shaking hands almost causing him to spill. He barely had time to take a breath before Roman had zipped the empty glass back onto the counter.

“Do you want more?” He asked, already refilling the glass.

“No, I’m… it’s okay.” 

Roman placed the full glass on the counter quietly and the two were swallowed by heavy silence once again. The clock ticked impossibly loud as they stood, fidgeting, wanting this moment to be over but not wanting to be the one to start it. 

Virgil took a shuddering breath and wrung his hands together.

Roman stared resolutely at a single water drop making its way down the glass.

This was his fault. He’d started it. It seemed only right that he break the tension that almost suffocated him, so even as his mind screamed for him to shut up and every muscle in his body turned to liquid, he opened his mouth to speak.

“Virgil, I-”

“I’m sorry.”

That effectively stopped Roman in his tracks. All night, he’d crafted a collection of apologies, from eloquent monologues to stumbling pleas for forgiveness, but in not one of his countless scenarios had Virgil  _ apologized.  _

“I know… I know I can be a lot to handle, I  _ know _ , I swear. And I  _ was  _ more outgoing when we first met, because I thought I had something to prove and it always exhausted me and I hated it but then we became… I don’t know, official? And closer and… and more comfortable and I didn’t think I had to  _ do  _ that anymore, I didn’t have to keep pushing myself so far!”

“V, stop-”

“The panic attacks and the anxiety and all that  _ shit  _ are  _ a lot  _ for other people and I  _ know that  _ but I didn’t know it was too much for you, I didn’t know you were tired of that and I can  _ be  _ better, I swear, I swear I can go back to how I was in the beginning, just  _ please don’t leave. _ ”

Virgil let out a choked sob and Roman couldn’t stop himself from rushing forward, intent on holding his stupid, stupid boyfriend until he realized this was in  _ no way _ his fault, only for Virgil to back up before he could do so.

“I’m- I’m not trying to guilt you, I’m sorry, I just, I love you, and I can be better,  _ I can _ , just give me a chance, please-”

“Virgil, baby, come  _ here _ .”

This time when he reached forward, Virgil allowed himself to be pulled into his boyfriend’s chest, basically collapsing against him as soon as Roman’s arms tightened around him. The dam broke moments later and Virgil finally let go of his own hands to grab the back of Roman’s shirt with a sense of urgency.

“Please don’t leave, I’m so sorry,” he begged raspily into Roman’s shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” 

Roman hung onto him almost as tightly in return, rocking them back and forth, finally allowing himself to cry. He shoved his face into Virgil’s hair, peppering small kisses and apologies to the crown of his head in between sobs. 

Virgil whined when Roman finally pulled away, but he didn’t go far, cradling his boyfriend’s face in his hands and wiping his tacky cheeks with his thumbs.

“Virgil, I cannot apologize enough for yesterday.”

“What are-” he hiccuped, “What are you talking about? It was my fault.”

“No, no, no no no no no,” Roman whispered, fighting that damn lump in his throat once more. “I had a spectacularly shitty day, and I took it out on you. I was leagues out of line. It wasn’t fair to you and I’m so, so unbelievably sorry.” 

As if the strings were cut on a marionette, all the tenseness dissolved from Virgil’s shoulders and he slumped forward, bumping his head weakly into Roman’s chest. “Can we sit down?”

“Yeah, of course.” Roman clumsily led him to the couch and sat on the adjacent cushion, assuming that if Virgil wanted to talk, he’d want his own space. His assumption was incorrect, however, judging by how Virgil crossed the space almost instantly and buried himself in Roman’s side like a koala. He shifted them both until he was laying on his back, Virgil splayed across him .

“I thought you’d be more upset with me,” He muttered, freeing his hand to run it through Virgil’s hair. His fingers raked through his own tears trapped in the locks and he grimaced.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling right now,” responded Virgil, accompanied by a shuddering breath, “I just need to know that you’re really here. And I need  _ you. _ ”

They were quiet for a moment, watching the sun begin to peek through their window, until Virgil spoke again sardonically.

“If this is a dream, I’m gonna be  _ so  _ pissed.”

Roman snorted despite himself and felt Virgil’s responding half-laugh from where he was tucked against him. 

“I agree. I thought I’d fucked up for good this time.”

A disgruntled  _ meow _ made Roman crane his neck over the couch, watching Figaro stretch languidly in their bedroom doorway. The cat sidled over to his food bowl and sat pointedly next to it.  _ Feed me.  _

“Later, Figaro,” Roman groaned, all too comfortable with Virgil as his blanket. A small part of him was worried that if he moved them at all, the spell would be broken, and they’d lose whatever peace they’d settled into. 

Well, that wouldn’t do at all, not by Figaro’s standards. The cat gave an upset mewl and trotted over to the couch, leaping up with grace and batting Virgil’s legs. It was that pettish action that made Roman realize that Virgil had turned stone still on his lap. Figaro changed his approach to headbutting at his arm in a clear attempt to get pets, but Virgil’s hand stayed still by their sides. 

“What’s going through your head?” Roman murmured. 

“That stuff you said, about me… not contributing to the relationship…” Virgil croaked, and Roman stilled, “What can I do to-… to fix that? Because I wanna fix it.”

“Baby,  _ no _ ,” Roman whispered, that shame-nausea returning, “I-” He groaned, dropping his head onto the arm of the couch behind him, “I was being an asshole. I didn’t mean that.”

Virgil didn’t budge, still deliberately ignoring Figaro’s futile begging for attention. “Then where did it _ come  _ from?”

He took a breath deep enough that Virgil rose and fell with his chest, and Roman was struck with the profound urge to pull him closer and never let him go. But that would likely make him feel trapped, and that wasn’t productive. “You remember when I dragged you to that improv show my students put on last year?”

“You introduced me as your boyfriend and we found out the class had placed bets on whether you were gay or not. I don’t know how it wasn’t obvious.”

Roman gasped in mock offense. “Maybe they just were trying not to stereotype!”

“Your phone case is a  _ rainbow- _ ”

“Anyways!” He interrupted, resuming his gentle threading through Virgil’s hair, who snorted but otherwise gave in to the affection. “Remember what happened after?”

“Mmhm.”

It had been a fantastic show, and Roman had been exceedingly proud of his little students, especially since it was his first time ever teaching a class. After the night, when the betting chaos had settled and everyone quickly adopted Virgil as theirs now, they’d pleaded to play a few more improv games before the theatre closed. Seeing as it was their last class, hence the performance in the first place, Roman had acquiesced. But neither of the men had expected for the gang of pre-teens to latch onto Virgil and beg him to play too, despite him having zero theatre experience. 

“Remember what they said?”

“They tried to pack all your lectures into five minutes of information.”

“I don’t  _ lecture,  _ I  _ dazzle _ .” 

“They thought you were  _ straight. _ ” 

“Only  _ some,  _ and that’s not the point!”

Virgil finally lifted his head, pulling his hands up so he could lay his chin on top of them. He smiled weakly. “Then what is the point?”

“The most important rule of improv is to keep the scene going. No matter what nonsense you have to pull out, just never leave a scene flat.”

There was a quiet moment while the other processed that before, once again, that layer of hurt reappeared on his face. He pushed himself off Roman’s chest in preparation to get up. “So… you’re saying you saw that argument as another scene you had to keep up.”

“No,  _ shit,  _ that came out wrong,” Roman insisted, and Virgil paused suspiciously, “I’m saying, that in a moment of panic, I fell back on bullshitting my way through it! That’s  _ literally  _ what I do for a living!” 

The distrust gave way to resignment and Virgil chewed on his cheek, turning his attention to the window. He sat all the way up on Roman’s legs, leaning back on his shins. “How do I know you’re not bullshitting me right now?” He said. 

“Because,” Roman followed him up, careful not to move his legs and dislodge his boyfriend, “You know I like when the bed is made, and even though you  _ hate  _ making it, you always do when I’m out of the house before you.”

Virgil looked down at his thumb.

“Because you let me choose the music in the car.”

“... you don’t like loud music,” He muttered, picking at the skin around his cuticle.

“You adjust your work schedule to come to every single one of my shows.”

He shrugged. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Yeah, but you hate working mornings. You let me rant about all my theatre stuff, even if you don’t get any of it.”

“I’m learning.” A faint smile was breaking through.

“You tell me when there’s spinach in my teeth, or my hair is messy, or if I’m acting like an asshole.”

“Well, that’s easy enough.”

Roman reciprocated the smile at that, taking Virgil’s hands in his own to stop the attack at his nail. “I’ve been watching you better yourself for years, even if it’s been really,  _ really  _ hard.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Virgil asked with a small blush, switching his fidgeting tactic to fiddling with Roman’s fingers. 

“Every time you do something that betters yourself, you help us, Virgil.” He leaned forward slowly, giving Virgil the time to move away if he wanted to, and rested their foreheads together. “Yesterday, I fucked up. Badly. You said you were anxious and I still acted like a dick. I kinda thought you’d hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” Virgil whispered, seemingly before he had a chance to process it, because his blush multiplied tenfold. Roman grinned. 

“Aw, is someone feeling sappy?”

“Shut up, jackass,” He retorted, bonking their heads together ever so gently. 

“I’m so sorry, Virgil,” Roman said after their giggles and blushes had faded, “It won’t happen again, I swear.” 

In lieu of answering, Virgil closed the already scant distance between their lips, and despite Roman using all of his self control to not sigh into it, he found himself doing so anyways. All the tension bled out of his shoulders at once as Virgil pulled away, pressing one more peck to the tip of his nose, and then leaning back with a small smile. 

“So… that means we’re good?”

“We’re good.”

“Thank god,” Roman groaned, flopping back and dropping his arm over his eyes dramatically. He heard Virgil’s quiet snicker before he resumed his job as a blanket. Except this time, instead of nuzzling his head into Roman’s neck, he could feel the distinct edge of a chin digging into his sternum.

The hand lifted from his eyes to see Virgil staring at him, that goofy little smirk on his face. 

“What?”

“I love you, idiot.”

Well, now they were wearing matching goofy little smirks. 

“I love you too.” 

That seemed to satiate him, because he gave a little nod and laid his head more comfortably on the other’s chest. He could have left the conversation there, content to just let them lay there in peace until the world fell away- or Figaro grew more insistent on being fed- but Roman just couldn’t banish the one persistent thought in the back of his mind. 

“Were you actually going to propose?” He blurted.

Virgil tensed for a moment, and then gave a resigned sigh. “...Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Roman furrowed his eyebrows, desperately hoping he sounded casual, though his heart was pounding far too loudly to not be heard, “I would have said yes. If you did.”

“Oh?” Virgil lifted his head. “You’re blushing, Princey.” He could  _ hear  _ the smug grin.

“Nooo…” Roman whined. His arm draped once more over his eyes in a weak attempt to hide the redness, but he drew it away only moments later when Virgil didn’t retort. 

The man was staring at him with an odd mix of disappointment and amusement, huffing out a breath as he watched Roman’s eyes.

“This wasn’t how I was planning to propose,” He sighed, “It was supposed to be all perfect, and romantic, and stuff. And the surprise is ruined now.”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Roman, continuing before Virgil could cut him off, “If it’s any consolation, I think a proposal in our pajamas, on the couch, would be very  _ us. _ ”

“You’re not in pajamas.”

“I slept in these clothes, they count as pajamas.”

Virgil snickered. Roman counted five breaths as the other’s face melted from a smile to anxiously knit brows, worrying his lip between his teeth as he looked down at him. It took another three for him to speak.

“So…uh... will you…?”

Roman’s face split into a grin, “Yes, Virgil. Obviously.” 

Virgil’s expression morphed to match his and he swooped down to kiss him again, though they barely could with how much they were smiling. They both devolved into giggles, happy to just stay wrapped in each other’s arms, until Virgil broke away with a gasp.

“Let me grab the ring!”

“Ring can wait,” Roman argued, tightening his grip around his waist to keep him in place, “I want cuddles.”

And so they did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm on Tumblr (same name) if you wanna come say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> Part two coming soon!


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